MITE 


BANCROFT    LIBRARY 


« '*"£ 

, 


FROM    THE   HUDSON 


TO    THE 


YOSEMITE 


BY 


WALLACE    BRUCE     I  °I  i  4 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

ALFRED   FREDERICKS  AND  JAMES  D.   SMIL  LIE 


PUBLISHED    BY 

Uterus 


Copyright,  1884, 

BY 
WALLACE  BRUCE. 


FAC-SIMILE  OF  LETTER  FROM  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW  TO  YOUR  CONDUCTOR,  AS  TO  THE 
LAST  STATION  EN  ROUTE—  THE  YOSEMITE. 


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& 


AnrvJlxj 


^A-          . 


STA  TIONS  EN  ROUTE. 

Page. 


The  Hudson, 


Scott's  Greeting  to  Burns, 21 

The  Nuptials, • .         .         .29 

The  Long  Drama, 31 

Poughkeepsie,         ...........  41 

Decoration  Day,          ..........  43 

My  Dream, 47 

The  Printer  Boys  Dream 51 

Parson  Allen's  Ride, 55 

Ladies'  Art  Club, ' 59 

Tulips,* ...  62 

Our  Nation  Forever, 65 

God's  Hearthstone, 67 

Kindness,    ............  71 

A  Coast  Survey, 75 

A  Michigan  Wreck, 79 

A  Handshake, '83 

Ye  Captain  Who  Took  Ye  District  School, 87 

A  Wanderer, 91 

The  Yosemite, 95 

*Flag  Station  (no  stop). 


TO    THE    TOURIST. 

Special  attention  is  directed  to  testimonials  of  popular  con 
ductors  over  other  and  well-established  lines,  to  wit :  Longfellow, 
Whittier,  Holmes,  etc.,  who  have  kindly  commended  several  of  the 
above  stations  of  our  new  route,  as  worthy  the  notice  of  visitors. 


FAC-SIMILE  OF  LETTER  FROM  JOHN  G.  WHITTIER  TO  YOUR  CONDUCTOR,  AS  TO  THE 
FOURTH  STATION  EN  ROUTE — THE  L'-NG  DRAMA. 


FROM  THE  HUDSON  TO  THE  YOSEM1TE. 


Announcement — ALL  ABOARD! 

Ladies  and  Gentlemen: — It  gives  me  pleasure  as  sole  owner, 
President,  Secretary,  Treasurer  and  General  Passenger  Agent  of 
this  romantic  route,  "  From  the  Hudson  to  the  Yosemite,"  to  an 
nounce  that  the  train  is  made  up  and  ready  to  start  on  schedule 
time.  According  to  advertisement,  the  run  of  three  thousand 
miles  will  be  made  in  about  sixty  minutes.  I  have  consented,  a  la 
Cook,  to  take  charge  of  the  train  in  person,  to  collect  the  tickets 
and  announce  the  stations.  It  may  not  be  professional  in  a  Con 
ductor  to  be  over-talkative  to  his  passengers ;  but  I  must  be  par 
doned  at  the  outset  in  saying,  that,  in  addition  to  these  valuable 
lines,  over  which  Railroad  Kings  have  never  speculated,  I  have 
owned  for  years  extensive  "  Castles  in  Spain,"  and  have  one  or  two 
first-class  mortgages  on  several  Italian  sunsets.  As  this  kind  of 
property  never  varies  perceptibly  in  the  market,  I  feel  perfectly 
easy  to  wander  at  will,  and  am  happy  to  find  myself  in  such  inter 
esting  company.  As  I  pass  through  the  train  I  will  tear  off  the 
first  coupon — the  Hudson — and  start  at  once  on  an  "Excursion" 
which  has  the  advantage  of  being  briefer  than  Wordsworth's. 

7 


FAC-SIMILE  OF  LETTER  FROM  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  TO  YOUR  CONDUCTOR,  AS  TO  THE 
FIRST  STATION,  EN  ROUTE-THE  HUDSON. 


c 


THE   HUDSON. 


i. 

Gray  streaks  of  dawn  are  faintly  seen  ; 

The  stars  of  half  their  light  are  shorn  ; 
The  Hudson,  with  its  banks  of  green, 

Lies  tranquil  in  the  early  morn. 

The  earth  and  sky  breathe  sacred  rest, 
A  holy  peace  too  sweet  to  break, 

A  spell  like  that  divine  behest 
Which  stilled  the  Galilean  'lake. 

The  circling  hills,  with  foreheads  fair, 
Await  with  joy  the  crowning  rays  ; 

All  nature  bows  in  grateful  prayer, 

The  templed  groves  respond  with  praise. 

9 


Ye  trembling  shafts  of  glorious  light, 
Dart  from  the  east  with  golden  gleam 

Cleave  the  dark  shield  of  fleeing  Night, 
And  slay  her  with  your  arrowy  beam. 

Cities  and  hamlets,  up  and  down 
This  level  highway  to  the  sea, 

Along  the  banks  sit  gray  and  brown, 
Dim  shadows  musing  dreamily. 


TO 


Adown  the  river  sloops  and  ships 
Float  slowly  with  the  lazy  tide ; 

And  round  the  bluff  a  paddle  dips, 

Where  once  the  storm-ship  used  to  ride. 

The  vision  widens  as  the  morn 

Sweeps  through  the  portals  of  the  day; 

Purple  and  rosy  mists  adorn 
Mountain  and  hill-top  far  away. 

II. 

The  Catskills  to  the  northward  rise, 

With  massive  swell  and  towering  crest, — 

The  old-time  "  mountains  of  the  skies," 
The  threshold  of  eternal  rest  ; 

Where  Manitou  once  lived  and  reigned, 
Great  Spirit  of  a  race  gone  by ; 

And  Ontiora  lies  enchained, 
With  face  uplifted  to  the  sky. 

The  dream-land,  too,  of  later  days, 

Where  Rip  Van  Winkle  slept  in  peace, 

Wrapt  up  in  deep  poetic  haze, 
A  twenty  years  of  sweet  release. 
ii 


Ay,  burning  years  !    a  nation's  forge ! 

To  wake  to  freedom  grown  to  more  ; 
To  find  another  painted  "  George  " 

Above  the  old  familiar  door. 

Through  summer  heat  and  winter  snow, 
Beside  that  rushing  mountain  stream, 

Just  how  he  slept  we  cannot  know; 
Perhaps  't  was  all  a  pleasant  dream. 

Mayhap  in  many  a  wintry  squall. 
Or  howling  blast,  or  blinding  storm, 

He  thought  he  heard  Dame  Gretchen's  call, 
And  that  sufficed  to  keep  him  warm  ; 

Or  else  that  flagon's  wondrous  draught, 
Distilled  in  some  weird  elfin-land, 

Drawn  from  the  keg  old  Hendrick  quaffed, 
And  shared  by  all  his  silent  band. 

O  legends  full  of  life  and  health, 
That  live  when  records  fail  and  die, 

Ye  are  the  Hudson's  richest  wealth, 
The  frondage  of  her  history ! 

13 


III. 

And  musing  here  this  quiet  morn, 

I  call  up  pictures,  far  away, 
Of  fountains  where  thy  wave  is  born, 

Of  rills  that  in  deep  shadows  play ; 

Of  forest,  trail,  and  lake,  and  stream, 
Rich  poems  bound  in  green  and  gold, 

Whose  leaves  reflect  the  Autumn  gleam, 
Ere  Summer  months  are  growing  old ; 

Of  camp-fires  bright  with  dancing  flame, 
Where  dreams  and  visions  floated  free, 

And  Rosalind  with  Annie's  name 
Interpreted  the  dreams  to  me. 

Lake  Avalanche,  with  rocky  wall, 
And   Henderson's  dark-wooded  shore, 

Your  echoes  linger  still  and  call 
Unto  my  soul  for  evermore  ! 

Tahawas,  rising  stern  and  grand, 

"  Cloud-Sunderer,"  lift  thy  forehead  high, 

Guard  well  thy  sun-kissed  mountain  land, 
Whose  lakes  seem  borrowed  from  the  sky. 


O   Hudson,  mountain-born  and  free, 
Thy  youth  a  deep  impression  takes, 

For,  mountain-guarded  to  the  sea, 
Thy  course  is  but  a  chain  of  lakes. 

IV. 

And  not  alone  thy  features  fair, 

And  legend  lore  and  matchless  grace, 

But  noble  deeds  of  courage  rare 
Illume,  as  with  a  soul,  thy  face. 

The  Highlands  and  the  Palisades 
Mirror  their  beauty  in  the  tide, 

The  history  of  whose  forest  shades 
A  nation  reads  with  conscious  pride. 

On  either  side  these  mountain  glens 
Lie  open  like  a  massive  book, 

Whose  wrords  were  graved  with  iron  pens, 
And  lead  into  the  eternal  rock : 

Which  evermore  shall  here  retain 
The  annals  time  cannot  erase, 

And  while  these  granite  leaves  remain 
This  crystal  ribbon  marks  the  place  ; 

15 


The  spot  where  Kosciusko  dreamed, 
Fort  Putnam's  gray  and  ruined  wall, 

West  Point,  where  patriot  bayonets  gleamed, 
This  open  page  reveals  them  all. 

From  Stony  Point  to  Bemis  Height, 

From  Saratoga  to  the  sea, 
We  trace  the  lines,  now  dark,  now  bright, 

From  seventy-six  to  eighty-three. 

We  celebrate  our  hundredth  year 

With  thankful  hearts  and  words  of  praise, 

And  learn  a  lasting  lesson  here 

Of  trust  and  hope  for  coming  days. 

V. 

And  sweet  to  me  this  other  thought, 
And  more  than  fancy  to  my  mind, — 

These  grand  divisions,  plainly  wrought, 
In  human  life  a  semblance  find  : 

The  Adriondacks,  childhood's  glee ; 

The  Catskills,  youth  with  dreams  o'ercast ; 
The   Highlands,  manhood  bold  and  free  ; 

The  Tappan  Zee,  age  come  at  last. 
16 


O  Tappan  Zee,  with  peaceful   hills, 
And  slumbrous  sky  and  drowsy  air, 

Thy  calm  and  restful  spirit  stills 

The  heart  weighed  down  with  weary  care ! 

Pocantico's  hushed  waters  glide 

Through  Sleepy  Hollow's  haunted  ground, 
And  whisper  to  the  listening  tide 

The  name  carved  o'er  one  lowly  mound. 

Fair  mansions  rise  on  every  hill, 

With  turrets  crowned  and  stately  towers, 

Which  men  can  buy  and  sell   at  will, 
But  old  Van  Tassel's  home  is  ours : 

A  quiet,  cozy  little  nest, 

Enshrined  and  loved  forevermore ; 
Where  Geoffrey  Crayon  came  to  rest, 

When  all  his  wanderings  were  o'er. 

Thrice  blest  and  happy  Tappan  Zee, 
Whose  banks  along  thy  glistening  tide 

Have  legend,  truth,  and  poetry 
Sweetly  expressed  in  Sunnyside. 


VI. 

The  Twilight  falls,  the  picture  fades  ; 

My  soul  has  drifted  down  the  stream; 
And  now  beneath  the  Palisades 

I   wonder,  kk  Is  it  all  a  dream?" 

Below  the  cliffs   Manhattan's  spires 
Glint  back  the  sunset's  latest   beam  ; 

The  bay  is  flecked  with  twinkling  fires, 
Or  is  it  but  "Van   Kortlandt's  dream" 
18 


Hark !   Freedom's  arms  ring  far  and  wide  ; 

Again  these  forts  with  beacons  gleam  ; 
Loud  cannon  roar  on   every  side, — 

I  start,   I  wake,   I  did  but  dream. 

Deep  silence  'mid  these  glorious  hills ; 

Dark  shadows  on  the  silver  stream  ; 
My  very  soul  with  rapture  thrills, 

"  Is't  heaven  or  earth,  or  but  a  dream  ?' 

Nay !  true  as  life,  and  deep  as  love, 
And  real  amidst  the  things  that  seem  ; 

For  earth  below  and   Heaven  above 

Proclaim   "  truth  stranger  than  a  dream.' 


EN  ROUTE. 

It  is  said  that  a  distinguished  General,  after  losing  an  important 
engagement,  telegraphed  to  Lincoln  :  "  I  found  it  necessary  either 
to  advance  or  to  retreat ;  I  have  done  both."  In  our  trip  through 
the  Hudson  I  have  followed  his  example,  by  commencing  in  the  mid 
dle  and  going  both  ways.  From  the  Catskills  I  went  straight 
to  the  Adirondacks;  from  the  Adirondacks  to  the  Highlands, 
the  Palisades  and  the  fair  Island  of  Manhattan.  As  there  is 
no  dining  car  attached,  and  no  boy  allowed  to  disturb  the 
passengers  with  "  Beef  tongue  or  ham  sandwiches,"  it  has  been 
thought  advisable  to  take  a  little  lunch  in  Central  Park  in  the 
society  of  Shakspeare,  Scott  and  Burns.  On  the  occasion  of  the 
unveiling  of  the  Burns  statue,  October  2nd,  1880,  it  occurred  to 
your  Conductor  that  it  would  be  eminently  fitting  for  Walter  Scott, 
who  had  met  Burns  in  the  flesh,  to  greet  him,  on  his  arrival  in 
bronze,  and  introduce  him  to  his  friend,  Shakspeare.  The  statues 
are  within  easy  speaking  distance  of  each  other,  and  the  idea 
took  the  following  expression  : 


20 


SCOTT'S  GREETING  TO  BURNS. 

Central  Park,  Neiv    York,  1880. 

We  greet  you,  Robie,  here  to-night, 
Beneath  these  stars  so  pure  and  bright ; 
We  greet  you,  poet,  come  at  last 
With  Will  and  me  your  lot  to  cast. 

We've  talked  about  you  many  a  day, 
And  wondered  when  you'd  be  this  way ; 
Reach  out  your  hand  and  gie's  a  shake, 
Just  ance,  for  auld  acquaintance  sake. 

We  welcome  you  from  Scotia's  land, 
And  reach  to  you  a  brither's  hand  ; 
A  kindred  soul  to  greet  you  turns — 
Will  Shakspeare,  this  is  Robie  Burns. 

We've  sung  your  songs  here  many  a  night 
Till  that  dear  star  is  lost  in  light, 
And,  Willie  says,  the  lines  you  wrote 
Will  even  do  for  him  to  quote. 

21 


He  likes  your  verses  wondrous  \vccl. 
And  says,  you  are  a  glorious  chiel, — 
In  fact  the  only  one  that  knows 
The  space  'twixt  poetry  and  prose. 

O,  Robie,  if  we  had  a  plaid 

We'd  quite  convert  yon  Stratford  lad  ; 

He  said,  in  truth,  but  yester-morn, 

"I'm  Scotch  in  wit 'though   English  born; 

"  And,  Walter,  it  may  yet  appear 
That  Scotland  takes  in  Warwickshire,— 
Let  Avon  be  the  border  line, 
Blot  out  the  Tweed,  or  draw  it  fine." 

So,  Willie,  brew  your  peck  o'  maut. 
And  set  the  board  wi'  attic  saut, 
For  Rob  has  come  at  last,  you  see, — 
We  were  a  pair,  but  now  we're  three. 

We  need  nae  ither  comrade  now, 
No  modern  bard  o'  classic  brow  ; 
'Tis  lang  before  anither  man 
Will  be  admitted  to  our  clan. 
22 


In  stormy  nights  'twas  lonesome  here 
When  Will  recited  half  o'  "Lear"; 
But  now  he  quotes  O'Shanter's  tale 
In  thunder,  lightning,  and  in  hail; 

And  says  his  witches  can't  compare 
With  those  that  chased  O'Shanter's  mare  ; 
He's  even  learned  your  "  Deil  Address  " 
To  quote  some  night  for  good  Queen   Bess. 
23 


For,   Robic,  this  is  haunted  ground, 
Where  spirits  keep  their  nightly  round, 
And   when   the  witchin'  hour  is  near 
You'll  see  strange  beings  gather  here. 

I   saw  Queen   Hess  the  other  night 
Beside  him,  clad  in  vesture  bright, 
While  kings  and  queens,  a  noble  throng. 
In  dim  procession  passed  along  ; 

And   walls  seemed  rising  from   the  earth, 
Like   Leicester's  tower  at   Ken il worth  : 
And  all  the  pageant  that  was  there 
Seemed  floating  in  the  moonlit  air. 

Ay,   beauty,   jealousy  and  pride. 
In   Dudley's  halls  walked  side  by  side, 
While  Amy  Robsart  seemed  to  stand 
With   fair  Ophelia,  hand   in   hand. 

And,   Robie,  what  a  vision   came 

As  Willie  whispered  Ariel's  name  ! 

The  towers  dissolved,  and   round  him   drew 

The  stately,  gentle,   fair  and   true,— 

24 


Miranda,  Juliet,   Imogene, 
Hermione,  and   Katharine, 
While  Rosalind  among  them  stood— 
The  sunlight  of  sweet  Arden's  wood. 

'Twere  long  to  pass  them  in  review, 
For  still  the  circle  wider  grew, 
Until  the  airy  vision  bright 
Was  lost  at  last  in  liquid  light. 

So  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear : 
Never  to  tell  what  passes  here  ; 
There'll  be  a  grand  reception  soon 
To  greet  the  lad  from   Bonnie  Doon. 

We'll  gather  up  the  jolliest  crew, 
Falstaff,   Prince   Hal,  and   Rhoderick  Dhu  ; 
And  a'  the  rantin  brither  Scots 
Frae  Maiden   Kirk  tae  John  o'  Groats. 

So,  Robie,  make  yoursel  at  home, 
'Mang  friends  and  brithers  you  have  come, 
And  here's  a  land  that's  quite  as  fair 
As  that  between  the  Doon  and  Ayr. 

25 


LOVE-LIGHT  OF 
THAT  AUGUST  NOON 
gTILL  GILDS  THE  BANKS 

0'  BONNIE  DOON. 


A  land  that  glories  in  its  youth, 
That  owns  no  creed  but  living  truth, 
Where  pith  o'  sense  and  pride  o'  worth 
A  refuge  find  from  rank  and  birth  ; 

A  land  that's  made  your  verses  real, 
Whose  guinea-stamp  is  honor's  seal ; 
Ay,  Robie,  here  they've  quite  forgot 
To  write  the  "  sir  " — just  Walter  Scott. 

And  here  your  songs  will  ever  ring 
Through  a'  the  years  the  centuries  bring, 
Till  all  are  free,  and  every  sea 
Shall  know  nae  shore  but  liberty. 


27 


EN  ROUTE. 

The  celebrated  wedding  of  New  York  and  Brooklyn  took  place 
May  24,  1883.  About  four  hundred  years  ago  the  citizens  of 
Venice  paid  to  Sonazaro  six  thousand  golden  crowns  for  six 
eulogistic  lines  on  their  city.  It  might  be  remarked  in  passing 
that  your  Conductor  did  not  receive  more  than  half  that  amount 
from  the  citizens  of  New  York  and  Brooklyn. 


28 


THE    NUPTIALS. 

New    York  and  Brooklyn,   May  24,   1883. 

The  nuptial-knot  at  last  is  firmly  tied  ; 
A  hundred  bells  ring  out  a  merry  chime, 
A  hundred  wires  proclaim  to  every  clime  : — 

Manhattan  takes  fair  Brooklyn  for  his  bride. 

In  strength  and  beauty  growing  side  by  side, 
Cities  betrothed,  you  waited  vigorous  prime, 
Like  steadfast  lovers  of  the  olden  time, 

Ere  greed  and  gain  our  early  faith  defied. 

We  wish  you  joy  !     No  longer  twain,  but  one, 
Forever  bound  in  links  of  triple  steel  ; 

You  need  no  marriage  ritual  to  rehearse, 
Which  Venice  chanted  to  bright  Adria  won  ; 
No  golden  ring ;    the  service  now  is  real  :— 
"  Each  other  take  for  better  or  for  worse." 


29 


EN  ROUTE. 

Our  next  stop,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  is  the  historic  station, 
known  as  Washington's  Headquarters.  The  Centennial  Celebra 
tion  of  the  "  Disbanding  of  the  American  Army "  was  observed  at 
this  place  October  i8th,  1883.  On  that  occasion  your  Conductor 
presented  the  following  poem — "The  Long  Drama."  Ample  time 
will  be  afforded  the  passenger  to  visit  the  Revolutionary  Museum 
while  the  Conductor  recites  his  poem — to  f/ie  brakemen. 


3° 


THE    LONG    DRAMA. 

With  banners  bright,  with  roll  of  drums, 
With  pride  and  pomp  and  civic  state, 

A  nation,  born  of  courage,  comes 
The  closing  act  to  celebrate. 

We've  traced  the  drama  page  by  page 
From  Lexington  to  Yorktown  field  ; 

The  curtain  drops  upon  the  stage, 
The  century's  book  to-day  is  sealed. 

A  cycle  grand, — with  wonders  fraught 
That  triumph  over  time  and  space, — 

In  woven  steel  its  dreams  are  wrought, 
The  nations  whisper  face  to  face. 

But  in  the  proud  and'  onward  march 
We  halt  an  hour  for  dress  parade, 

Remembering  that  fair  freedom's  arch 
Springs  from  the  base  our  fathers  laid, 


With  cheeks  aglow  with  patriot  fire 
They  pass  in  long  review  again, 

We  grasp  the  hand  of  noble  sire 

Who  made  ti^o  words  of  "  Noblemen." 

In  silence  now  the  tattered  band,— 
Heroes  in  homespun  worn  and  gray, — 

Around  the  old  Headquarters  stand 
As  in  that  dark  uncertain  day. 

32 


That  low-roofed  dwelling  shelters  still 
The  phantom  tenants  of  the  past ; 

Each  garret  beam,  each  oaken  sill 

Treasures  and  holds  their  memories  fast. 

Ay,  humble  walls  !  the  manger-birth 
To  emphasize  this  truth  was  given  : 

The  noblest  deeds  are  nearest  earth, 
The  lowliest  roofs  are  nearest  Heaven. 

We  hear  the  anthem  once  again, — 

"  No  king  but  God  !" — to  guide  our  way, 

Like  that  of  old — "  Good  will  to  men  "- 
Unto  the  shrine  where  freedom  lay. 

One  window  looking  toward  the  east, 
Seven  doors  wide-open  every  side ; 

That  room  revered  proclaims  at  least 
An  invitation  free  and  wide. 

Wayne,  Putnam,  Knox  and   Heath  are  there, 
Steuben,  proud   Prussia's  honored  son, 

Brave  La  Fayette  from  France  the   fair, 
And,  chief  of  all,  our  Washington. 

33 


Serene  and  calm  in  peril's  hour, 
An  honest  man  without  pretense, 

He  stands  supreme  to  teach  the  power 
And  brilliancy  of  common   sense. 

Alike  disdaining  fraud  and  art, 

He  blended  love  with  stern  command  ; 

He  bore  his  country  in  his  heart, 
He  held  his  army  by  the  hand. 

Hush  !  carping  critic,  read  aright 

The  record  of  his  fair  renown  : — 
A  leader  by  diviner  right 

Than  he  who  wore  the  British  crown. 

• 

With  silvered  locks  and  eyes  grown  dim* 
As  victory's  sun  proclaimed  the  morn, 

He  pushed  aside  the  diadem 

With   stern   rebuke  and  patriot  scorn. 

He  quells  the  half-paid  mutineers, 
And  binds  them  closer  to  the   cause; 

His  presence  turns  their  wrath  to  tears, 
Their  muttered   threats   to   loud   applause. 

34 


The  great  Republic  had  its  birth 
That  hour  beneath  the  army's  wing, 

Whose  leader  taught  by  native  worth 
The  man  is  grander  than  the  king. 

The  stars  on  that  bright  azure  field, 

Which  proudly  wave  o'er  land  and  sea. 

Were  fitly  taken  from  his  shield 
To  be  our  common  heraldry. 

We  need  no  trappings  worn  and  old, 

No  courtly  lineage  to  invoke, 
No  tinseled  plate,  but  solid  gold, 

No  thin  veneer,  but  heart  of  oak. 

No  aping  after  foreign  ways 

Becomes  a  son  of  noble  sire ; 
Columbia  wins  the  sweetest  praise 

When  clad  in  simple,  plain  attire. 

In  science,  poesy  and  art, 

We  ask  the  best  the  world  can  give  ; 
\Ve  feel  the  throb  of  Britain's  heart, 

And  will  while  Burns  and  Shakspeare  live. 

35 


But,  oh  !  the  nation  is  too  great 
To  borrow  emptiness  and  pride  : 

The  queenly  Hudson  wears  in  state 
Her  robes  with  native  pigments  dyed. 

October  lifts  with  colors  bright 
Its  mountain  canvas  to  the  sky; 

The  crimson  trees,  aglow  with  light, 
Unto  our  banners  wave  reply. 

Like   Horeb's  bush  the  leaves  repeat 
From  lips  of  flame  with  glory  crowned 

"  Put  off  thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet," 
The  place  they  trod  is  holy  ground." 

O  fairest  stream  beneath  the  sun  ! 

Thy  Highland  portal  was  the  key, 
Which  force  and  treason  well-nigh  won, 

Like  that  of  famed  Thermopylae. 

That  ridge  along  our  eastern  coast, 
From  Carolina  to  the  Sound, 

Opposed  its  front  to  England's  host, 
And  heroes  at  each  pass  were  found. 

37 


A  vast  primeval  palisade, 

With  bastions  bold  and  wooded  crest, 
A  bulwark  strong  by  nature  made 

To  guard  the  valley  of  the  west. 

Along  its  height  the  beacons  gleamed, 
It  formed  the  nation's  battle-line, 

Firm  as  the  rocks  and  cliffs  where  dreamed 
The  soldier-seers  of  Palestine. 

These  hills  shall  keep  their  memory  sure, 
The  blocks  we  rear  shall  fall  away, 

The  mountain  fastnesses  enaure, 

And  speak  their  glorious  deeds  for  aye. 

38 


And  oh !  while  morning's  golden  urn 
Pours  amber  light  o'er  purple  brim, 

And  rosy  peaks  like  rubies  burn 
Around  the  emerald  valley's  rim  ; 

So  long  preserve  our  hearthstone  warm  ! 

Our  reverence,  O  God,  increase  ! 
And  let  the  glad  centennials  form 

One  long  Millenial  of  Peace. 


39 


EN  ROUTE. 

It  has  been  regarded  for  more  than  a  century  that  the  word 
Poughkeepsie,  derived  from  the  Indian  "  Apo-keep-sing,"  signi 
fied  "Safe  Harbor";  but,  after  patient  investigation,  it  is  now 
generally  understood  that  the  original  meaning  was  simply  "Ten 
Minutes  for  Refreshments."  This  being  the  home  of  your  Con 
ductor,  it  was  his  purpose  to  greet  the  tourist  with  a  brass 
band,  a  college  procession,  and  a  poem.  The  passengers  be 
ing,  however,  for  the  most  part,  of  an  intellectual  cast,  only  the 
literary  part  of  the  programme  is  preserved. 


40 


POUGHKEEPSIE. 

There  was  a  young  man  in    Pokipsie 

Who  liked  a  certain  girl's   lipsie  ; 
But  her  papa  came  in, 
And  the  young  man  did  spin 

Right  down  the  front  steps  as  if    tipsy. 

There  was  a  young  lady  at  Vassar 
As  learned  as  any  profassor ; 

She  wore  her  dress  plain, 

To  show  she  had  brain, 
And  she  would  not  let  any  one  "  sass "  her. 

There  was  at  the  big  Eastman  College 
A  youth  so  crammed  full  of  knowledge, 

When  he  opened  his  jaw 

He  filled  you  with  awe, 
And  you  left  without  any  apolege. 


EN  ROUTE. 

Some  years  ago  your  Conductor  was  present  at  a  Decoration 
Day  service  in  Hudson.  In  the  long  procession  he  noted  the 
frayed  flags  of  Antietam,  Gettysburg,  Malvern  Hill,  and  the  long 
roll  of  battle-fields  which  we  know  by  heart.  The  stripes  were 
all  worn  away,  but  the  stars  remained,  as  if  to  symbolize  the 
long  struggle  and  the  grand  result. 


42 


DECORATION    DAY. 

We  deck  to-day  each  soldier's  grave, 
We  come  with  garlands  pure  and  white 

To  bind  the  brows  of  those  who  gave 
Their  all  to  keep  our  honor  bright. 

We  cannot  pay  the  debt  we  owe, 

They  gave  their  lives  that  we  might  live  ; 

Our  warmest  words  fall  far  below 

The  worship  that  we  fain  would  give. 

O  country,  fairest  of.  the  free  ! 

Columbia !  name  forever  blest ; 
O  lost  "  Atlantis  "  of  the  sea, 

Securely  anchored  in  the  West  ; 

Unfold  the  flag  their  hands  have  borne  ! 

The  shreds  of  many  a  well  fought  field  ; 
The  stripes  alone  are  rent  and  torn, 

The  stars  are  there,  our  sacred  shield. 

43 


FAC-SIMILE  OF  LETTER  FROM  WENDELL  PHILLIPS  TO  YOUR  CONDUCTOR,   AS  TO  THE 
STATION  EN  ROUTE— DECORATION  DAY. 


£• 


/y^^£. 

/ 


Those  stars  are  ours  because  they  died, 

The  blue  is  dearer  for  their  sake, 
Who  sleep  on  many  a  green  hillside, 

In  ranks  that  never  more  will  break. 

For  well  they  wore  the  color  true 

That  holds  our  constellation  fair, 
And  evermore  the  "  Boys  in  Blue  " 

Shall  have  a  day  of  rest  and  prayer. 

Yes,  martyred  heroes  of  the  free  ! 

We  kneel  beside  your  mounds  and  pray  :— 
That  God  our  nation's  guard  may  be, 

And  comrades  hope  from  day  to  day. 

O  day  baptized  in  blood  and  tears  ! 

The  blood  was  theirs ;    the  tears  are  ours  ; 
And  children's  children  through  the  years 

Shall  strew  their  graves  with  sweetest  flowers. 

And   May-day  garlands  all  in  bloom 
Will  quicken  other  verse  than  mine, 

And  decorate  the  soldiers'  tomb 

• 

From  Southern  palm  to  Northern  pine. 

45 


EN  ROUTE. 

As  there  is  no  Peripatetic  Boy  on  the  train,  with  "ten  cent 
packages  of  caramels,"  your  Conductor  is  reluctantly  compelled 
to  relate  "a  dream"  of  his  Claverack  school-days,  in  the  far-off 
confectionery  days  of  his  youth. 


46 


MY  DREAM. 

"  Ten-Twenty-Bell  "  was  pealing 
From  out  the  Claverack  tower, 

And  chum  said  "  Good  night,  Virgil, 
"  It  rings  retiring  hour. 

"  Good  night — '  Arma  virumque/ 
"  Good  night  ye  '  walls  of  Rome  ', 

"Good  night,   fair  loving  Juno, 
"  And  Dido — left  at  home." 

But  just  before  we  slumbered, 

Unto  our  great  surprise, 
Two  maidens,  clad  in  muslin, 

Seemed  to  materialize. 

And  while  we  were  discussing, 

Which  one  possessed  more  charms, 

My  tongue  forgot  its  duty, 
I   fell  in  Morpheus'  arms. 

47 


But,  though  my  tongue  was  silent, 
One  maiden  lingered  there, 

And  through  the  fields  I   wandered, 
With  fairest  of  the  fair. 

And,  as  I   stooped  to  kiss  her, 

In  quiet  woodland  dell, 
She — promise,  gentle  reader, 

That  you  will  never  tell— 

She  looked  so  sweet  and  tender,    . 

With  eyes  of  beaming  love, 
Her  voice  of  thrilling  sweetness 

Seemed  borrowed  from  above. 

Her  lips  and  mine  were  waiting 
To  feel  the  mutual  press; 

My  arms  !  where  were  they,  readers  ? 
Think  you  that  you  could  guess  ? 

Ah  !  fame  and  praise  are  pleasant, 
But  can't  compare  with  this, 

Mark  Antony  made  a  bargain,— 
A  kingdom  for  a  kiss. 
48 


The  moon  rode  through  the  azure, 
A  queen  in  beauty  drest, 

The  sky  with  big  brass  buttons 
Drew  close  its  dark  blue  vest. 

A  world  of  joy  was  floating 
In  love's  own  atmosphere, 

But,  like  a  painted  bubble, 
It  vanished  in  a  tear. 

For  as  I  stooped  to  kiss  her, 
In  rapt  and  dear  embrace, 

She — think  you,  patient  reader, 
She  slapped  me  in  the  face  ? 

O,  no  !     Pulchra  puella  ! 

Hopes  vanish  as  they  come, 
For  I  was  sweetly  dreaming, 

And  simply  kissing — chum. 


49 


EN  ROUTE. 

The  next  " dream"  is  not  accurately  laid  down  on  our  route. 
In  fact,  your  Conductor  kneaded  it  one  day  on  the  cars  between 
New  York  and  Albany.  It  was  therefore  born,  like  the  Cape 
Cod  boy,  all  along  the  shore.  The  printer-boy  is  usually  known 
in  newspaper  offices  by  a  less  euphonious  appellation,  and  is  gen 
erally  considered  as  ubiquitous  as  his  namesake. 


THE  PRINTER-BOY'S  DREAM. 

On  a  rickety  stool,  by  a  rickety  door 
Of  the  editor's  room  on  the  upper  floor, 

In  the  inner  sanctum  of  pen  and  shears, 
Sat  a  printer's  boy  of  uncertain  years, 

Waiting  for  copy  ;  and  all  was  still 

Save  the  rasping  scratch  of  a  rapid   quill. 

The  Carrier's  Address  was  being  born 

In  the  old-time  verse  for  the  New  Year's  morn 

And  the  editor  wrote  like  a  man  inspired, 
But  the  hour  was  late  and  the  boy  was  tired. 

Congressional  Records,  in  binding  grim, 
And  Patent  Reports  looked  down  on  him — 

Plump  volumes  revealing  the  nation's  health, 
And  of  books  the  editor's  only  wealth. 

Large  files  of  papers,  dusty  and  old, 
In  unswept  corners  quietly  told 


That  his  paper  was  somehow  a  thing  of  dates, 
While  the  plums  were  reserved  for  happier  fates. 

But  the  books,  and  the  files,  and  [he  editor  gray, 
To  the  drowsy  boy  were  fading  away. 

And  the  narrow  room  seemed  a  gallery  grand, 
With  rich  wrought  carvings  on  every  hand  ; 

Beautiful  volumes  quaint  and  old, 
Yellow  vellums  with  clasps  of  gold, 

Arranged  in  ebony  cases  rare, 
Greeted  his  vision  everywhere  ; 

And  he  noted — the  books  in  tens  were  placed, 
And  a  hundred  volumes  each  alcove  graced  ; 

Eighteen  were  closed  with  a  brazen  bar, 
But  the  Nineteenth  alcove  was  still   ajar  ; 

No  parchment  here  ;  the  books  were  new, 
And  the  last  was  registered   Eighty-two ; 

While  a  boy  in  feature  resembling  him, 
Not  ragged  and  soiled,  but  neat  and  trim, 

Near  the  lower  shelf,  he  seemed  to  see 
Placing  another  marked   Eighty-three  ; 

52 


And  an  angel  sat  in  a  golden  chair 

Writing  in  characters  bright  and  fair 

t 
With  a  noiseless  pen  ;  and  the  volume  bore 

On  the  clear 'white  margin   Eighty-four. 

But  the  vision  vanished  with — "  Johnny,  come! 
This  to  the  foreman  and  then  go  home. 

Wait,  one  line  more — a  merry  cheer ! 
To  each  and  all  a  blithe  New  Year!" 

Gone  were  the  alcoves  with  carving  old, 
And  volumes  rich  with  clasps  of  gold  ; 

The  Patent  Reports  came  back  again, 
The  whitewashed  wall  and  the  dingy  den  ; 

And  the  angel  that  sat  in  glory  there 
Was  the  editor  gray  in  his  old  arm-chair. 


53 


EN  ROUTE. 

We  make,  at  this  point,  a  short  detour  in  order  to  take  in  the 
Battle-field  of  Bennington.  The  Bennington  Centennial  was  cele 
brated  August  16,  1875.  Your  Conductor  delivered  at  that  time 
the  following  poem  in  commemoration  of  Parson  Allen,  who  came 
with  a  portion  of  his  "  flock "  from  Pittsfield.  As  stated  in  the 
History  of  Berkshire,  the  boys  marched  on  foot  and  the  Parson 
rode  in  his  primitive  chaise. 


54 


PARSON    ALLEN'S    RIDE. 

The  "  Catamount  Tavern  "  is  lively  to-night, 

The  boys  of  Vermont  and  New  Hampshire  are  here, 

Assembled  and  grouped  in  the  lingering  light, 

To  greet  Parson  Allen  with  shout  and  with  cheer. 

Over  mountain  and  valley,   from   Pittsfield  green, 
Through  the  driving  rain  of  that  August  day, 

The  "Flock"  marched  on  with  martial  mein, 
And  the  Parson  rode  in  his  "  one  horse  shay." 

"  Three  cheers  for  old  Berkshire  !"    the  General  said, 
As  the  boys  of  New   England  drew  up  face  to  face, 

"  Baum  bids  us  a  breakfast  to-morrow  to  spread, 
"And  the  Parson  is  here  to  say  us  the  'grace.'". 

i 

"  The  lads  who  are  with  me  have  come  here  to  fight, 
"  And  we  know  of  no  grace,"  was  the  Parson's  reply, 

"  Save  the  name  of  Jehovah,  our  country  and  right, 
"  Which  your  own  Ethan  Allen  pronounced  at  Fort  Ti.' 

55 


"  To-morrow,"  said  Stark,  "  there'll  be  fighting  to  do, 

"If  you  think  you  can  wait  for  the  morning  light, 

"And  Parson,  I'll  conquer  the  British  with  you, 

"  Or  Moll}'  Stark  sleeps  a  widow  at  night." 

What  the  Parson  dreamed  in  that   Hennington  camp. 
Neither  Yankee  nor  Prophet  would  dare  to  guess  ; 

A  vision,  perhaps,  of  the   King  David  stamp, 

With  a  mixture  of  Cromwell  and  good  Queen   Hess. 

But  we  know  the  result  of  that  glorious  day. 

And  the  victory  won  ere  the  night  came  down; 
How  Warner  charged  in  the  bitter  fray. 

With    Rossiter,   Hobart,  and  old  John   Brown  : 

And  how  in  a  lull  of  the  three  hours'  fight, 

The   Parson  harangued  the  tory  line. 
As  he  stood  on  a  stump,  with   his  musket   bright. 

And  sprinkled  his  texts  with  the  powder  fine  :— 

The  sword  of  the   Lord  is  our  battle  cry, 

A  refuge  sure  in   the  hour  of  need. 
And   freedom  and   faith  can   never  die, 

Is  article  first  of  the   Puritan   creed. 

56 


11  Perhaps  the   '  occasion  '  was  rather  rash," 
He  remarked  to  his  comrades  after  the  rout, 

"  For  behind  a  bush   I  saw  a  flash, 

"  But  I   fired  that  way  and  put  it  out." 

And  many  the  sayings,  eccentric  and  queer, 

Repeated  and  sung  through  the  whole  country  side, 

And  quoted   in   Berkshire  for  many  a  year, 
Of  the  Pittsfield  march  and  the  Parson's  ride. 

All  honor  to  Stark  and  his  resolute  men, 

To  the  Green   Mountain  Boys  all  honor  and  praise, 

While  with  shout  and  with  cheer  we  welcome  again, 
The  Parson  who  came  in  his  one  horse  chaise. 


57 


EN  ROUTE. 

Our  next  station  is  a  celebrated  Ladies'  Art  Club.     The   train 
stops  one  minute  to  take  on  a  special  car. 


TO  THE  LADIES' ART  CLUB  OF  SYRACUSE. 

Accepting  Invitation  to  Lecture   on  "  Womanhood  in  Shakspeare" 

Some  pleasant  day 
In  blooming  May, 

Though  rather  late, 

Will  suit  for  date. 

The  classic  song, 
That  "art  is  long", 

Applies  to  this 

Protracted  bliss. 

But  Time,  alas ! 
Just  turns  his  glass, 

And  months  go  by, 

As  swallows  fly. 

The  sands  run  swift, 
And  gently  sift 

Our  locks  with  gray 

Ere  close  of  day. 

59 


Tis  surely  right, 

And  fitting  quite, 

That  Art  should  wait 
At  Nature's  gate. 

When  summer  showers 
Bring  out  the  flowers, 
She  then  will  greet 
Her  sister  sweet. 

But  "Womanhood," 

As  woman  should, 

In  dear  Shakspeare 
Blooms  all  the  year. 

Each  flower  that  grows 
His  garden  knows, 

Immortal  there 

In  summer  air. 

In  every  zone 

Their  names  are  known ; 
Their  love  and  worth 
Enrich  the  earth. 
60 


The  Arden  grove 
Breathes  Ros'lind's  love  ; 

The  pansy  lives 

Ophelia  gives. 

Miranda's  isle 

Will  ever  smile, 

And  roses  bloom 
On  Juliet's  tomb. 

The  woman-queen, 

Fair  Imogene, 

Preserves  his  dream 
By  Avon's  stream. 

The  sweetest  flower 
In   Belmont's  bower 

Still  speaks  of  thee, 

Dear  Jessica, 

And   Portia  fair  ; 

Whose  caskets  rare 
Still  tell  the  truth 
To  heedless  youth. 
61 


TULIPS.* 

Where  grows  the  flower  and  what's  its  name. 
That  blooms  in  winter  and  summer  the  same, 
The  language  of  which  some  say  is  true; 
Some  say  is  false ;  now  what  say  you  ? 

I  sing  not  of  flowerets  that  wither  and  fade 

When  crimson  and  gold  on  the  woodlands  are  laid  ; 

When  Autumn  unfurls  on  the  deep  mountain  side 

His  banners  rich-woven  and  brilliantly  dyed: 

I  sing  of  the  flowers  that  earth's  frost  never  nips, 

On  hillside  and  valley — the  sweet  two-lips. 

In  fairest  of  gardens,  in  nooks  growing  wild, 
In  cold  arctic  climes  where  the  rose  never  smiled, 
Where  bright  waters  flow,  where  soft  breezes  blow, 
In  lands  that  are  wrapped  in  perpetual  snow, 
We  find  them  in  beauty,  for  sunlight  or  shade 
Despoils  not  their  sweetness,  or  makes  them  to  fade 
And  furthermore,  reader,  this  also  is  true, 
Whenever  they're  pressed  they  blossom  anew. 


*  Flag  station  (no  stop). 


62 


Cordelia,  too, 

So  fond  and  true, 

Thy  gentle  word, 

Through  centuries  heard, 

Still  stirs  each  heart 

To  do  its  part, 
And  bravely  lead 
In  word  and  deed. 

But  song  of  ours 

Don't  match  the  flowers, 
Ah,   that  the  words 
Were  humming  birds. 

The  lines  are  short 
To  write  this  sort, 

So  I  will  say 

"  Good  bye  "  till  May. 

But,  when  you  read 
This  Shakspeare  screed, 

Include,   I   pray, 

Ann   Hathaway. 

63 


EN  ROUTE. 

All  hail  Chautauqua  !  worthy  of  a  thousand  adjectives  !  Fair, 
lovely,  attractive,  winning,  winsome,  inviting,  captivating,  delight 
ful  Chautauqua !  Turn  again,  Reader,  the  pages  of  thy  eloquent 
Thesaurus  and  write  in  italics  the  words — gladsome,  refreshing,  fas 
cinating,  Elysian.  Happy,  thrice  happy,  illumined  with  a  diviner 
philosophy  than  that  which  lit  the  Academic  Gardens  of  Plato,  fairer 
than  the  woodlands  of  Arcadia,  more  musical  than  the  oaks  which 
rustled  above  the  oracles  of  Dodona  !  The  leaves  of  thy  trees 
are  floating  throughout  the  land,  thy  rosy  sunsets  seem  like  evening 
hearthstones  of  devotion,  and  from  thy  shrine  of  love  goes  up  the 
glad  chorus: 

One  land  with  a  history  glorious, 
One  God  and  one  faith  all  victorious. 


OUR  NATION   FOREVER. 

Music  by  Prof.  C.  C.  Case  ;  Published  by  Church  6°  Co.,  Cincinnati,  O. 
Sung  by  six   thousand  voices  at  the  close  of  a    Union   Concert  of  . 
Northern  and  Southern  songs,  in  the  Chautauqua  Amphitheatre. 

Ring  out  to  the  stars  the  glad    chorus  ! 

Let  bells  in  sweet  melody  chime  ; 
Ring  out  to  the  sky  bending  o'er  us 

The  chant  of  a  nation  sublime  : — 
One  land  with  a  history  glorious  ! 

One  God  and  one  faith  all  victorious  ! 

The  songs  of  the  camp-fires  are   blended  ; 

The  North  and  the  South  are  no  more  ; 
The  conflict  forever  is  ended 

From  the  Lakes  to  the  Palm-girded  shore. 

One  people  united  forever 

In   hope  greets  the  promising  years  ; 

No  discord  again  can  dissever 
A   Union   cemented  by  tears. 

65 


The  past  shall  retain  but  one  story  :— 
A  record  of  courage  and   love  ; 

The  future  shall  cherish  one   glory, 

While  the  stars  shine  responsive  above. 

With   emotions  of  pride  and  of  sorrow 
Bring  roses  and  lilies  to-day  ; 

In  the  dawn  of  the  nation's  to-morrow 
We  garland  the  blue  and  the  gray. 

One  land  with  a  history  glorious  ! 

One  God  and  one  faith  all  victorious  ! 


GOD'S  HEARTHSTONE. 

The  evening  fires  are  burning  dim 
Along  Chautauqua's  western  rim  ; 
The  embers  of  a  dying  day 
Are  sinking  in  the  ashes  gray. 

We  lay  aside  our  toil  and   care, 

We  bow  to  Thee  in  thankful  prayer, 

That  round  Thy  hearthstone  wide  and  free 

The  world   is  all  one  family. 

67 


3r  5R- 


'Tis  not  in  temples  built  by  hands, 
Or  written  scrolls  from  far-off  lands, 
But  at  the  altars  reared  by  Thee 
We  learn  the  truest  liturgy. 

Thy  voice  was  heard  on  Sinai's  height, 
On  Horeb's  mountain  veiled  in  night ; 
Thy  voice  is  heard  in  every  rill, 
Thy  glory  glows  on  every  hill. 

Night  speaks  to'  night,  day  speaks  to  day, 
Their  world-wide  language  lives  for  aye, 
Their  lines  have  gone  through  all  the  earth, 
The  heavens  declare  Thy  matchless  worth. 

So  may  Thy  Word  of  Love  more  dear 
To  every  age  and  race  appear, 
Until  time's  narrow  restless  sea 
Is  hushed  in  Thy  eternity. 

And  oh,  may  faith  still  deeper  grow ! 
Till  peace  from  heart  to  heart  shall  flow, 
Till  all  the  world,  each  eventide, 
Shall  gather  round  Thy  hearthstone  wide. 


EN  ROUTE. 

During  the  lecture  campaign  of  1883,  your  Conductor  was 
greeted  at  Hiram  College,  Ohio,  with  a  floral  token  as  a  birth 
day  remembrance.  His  lecture  (speaking  modestly  in  the  third 
person)  being  well  received,  he  was  invited  to  return.  To  show 
himself  grateful  for  this  cordial  appreciation  he  visited  Mr.  Apollo's 
conservatory  on  his  way ;  but  the  gardener,  being  exceedingly  busy 
waiting  on  Tennyson  and  Arnold,  turned  him  away  with  a  single 
pansy,  which  he  said  was  a  rare  species  called  "  Kindness." 


70 


KINDNESS. 

Dedicated  to  Mrs.  James  A.  Garfield. 

The  fountain  gives  birth  to  the  stream, 

The  stream  glides  on  to  the  sea ; 
The  sun  looks  down  and  its  beam 

Lifts  moisture  to  gladden  the  lea ; 
The  hills  and  the  mountains  rejoice, 

The  valleys  with  deep  verdure   lined  ; 
One  chorus  the  elements  voice : — 

With  love  every  law  is  entwined. 

The  rose  leans  over  the  brook, 

And  blushes  its  beauty  to  trace  ; 
The  waters,  entranced  in  a  nook, 

Delight  in  the  -glow  of  its  face. 
Then  onward  through  grasses -and  ferns 

The  rill  laughs  at  stones  in  its  way  ; 
New  charm  to  the  woodland  returns, 

The  mosses  are  jeweled  with  spray. 


There  is  nothing  that  lives  to  itself, 

Be  it  ever  so  near  or  so  far, 
From  the  weed-  on  the  sea's  coral  shelf 

To  the  fleck  of  the  furthermost  star  ; 
No  atom  removed  or  estranged, 

No  minute  divorced  from  the  hours, 
Blind  force  is  to  sympathy  changed, 

And  each  link  is  inwoven  with    flowers. 

No  life  is  so  strong  and  complete 

But  it  yearns  for  the  smile  of  a  friend  ; 
A  remembrance  is  always  more  sweet 

When  love  and  kind  wishes  attend  ; 
Your  red-lipped  roses  still   speak, 

Your  blossoms,  carnation  and  white, 
But  alas  !  my  tribute  is  weak, 

I  bring  but  a  pansy  to-night  : 

To  fade  ;  but  your  garlands  remain, 

Unwithered  your  chaplet  survives, 
No  deed  can  be  idle  or  vain 

That  strengthens  or  sweetens  our  lives  ; 
And  richer  the  token  to  me, 

From  the  dear  alma  mater  of  one 
Revered  from  the  lakes  to  the  sea, 

Your  lover  and  brother  and  son. 

72 


His  life  has  flowed  down  to  the  deep, 

His  record  enriches  the  earth, 
And  memory's  roses  shall  keep 

Their  bloom  where  the  stream  had  its  birti, 
The  voice  of  our  Garfield  is  still, 

But  the  word  of  the  man  cannot  die, 
His  courage  our  pulses  enthrill, 

Our  dreams  to  his  manhood  reply. 


73 


EN  ROUTE. 

The  following  station  does  not  belong  anywhere  in  particular.  If 
our  route  did  not  take  us  so  far  north,  it  might  with  greater  propriety 
be  located  at  Mammoth  Cave.  But  it  chanced,  one  sunny  day  in  the 
summer  of  '83,  that  your  Conductor  sat  by  the  beautiful  Bay  at 
Lakeside,  Ohio,  watching  the  bright  waves  breaking  upon  the  shore. 
He  had  just  finished  reading  an  exhaustive  treatise  of  six  hundred 
pages  on  "  The  Mouth  of  the  River  Amazon."  He  slumbered,  and 
when  he  awoke  he  found  himself  possessed  of  the  following  "  Coast 
Survey." 


74 


A   COAST    SURVEY. 

Oh  yes,   I've  seen  your  Boston  girls, 
And  anchored  close  to  Cambridge  curls ; 
But  from  Ches'peake  'way  down  to  Maine 
There  is  no  girl  like  Sarah  Jane. 

What  love-lit  eyes  !     What  wavy  hair ! 
What  cheeks  suffused  with  blushes  rare ! 
Her  mouth — a  sort  of  inland  sea, 
Her  smile — a  whole  Geography. 

She  is  the  bonniest,  best  rigged  lass 
From  Sandy  Hook  to  Hatteras ; 
And  when  she  laughs,  her  open  face 
Looks  like  a  sea-side  watering  place. 

What  joy  to  launch  a  gallant  kiss 
Upon  that  tideless  sea  of  bliss ! 
To  start  it  off,  and  let  it  float 
To  realms  of  sweetness  far  remote: 

75 


To  navigate  a  whaling  smack, 
Without  a  thought  of  getting  back  ; 
To  drift,  unheeding  day  or  night, 
Or  drop  like  Jonah — out  of  sight. 

And  yet  one  seems  to  need  a  chart 
To  find  a  port  from  which  to  start ; 
Her  mouth  is  like  Long  Island  Sound, 
It  takes  a  week  to  go  'way  round. 

And  very  few  survive  the  trip, 
Especially  round  the  upper  lip  ; 
A  treacherous  coast,  where,  all  forlorn, 
Her  nose  protrudes — just  like  Cape  Horn. 

Columbus  thought,  by  sailing  west, 
To  find  the  Islands  of  the  Blest; 
But,  had  he  ploughed  this  pathless  sea, 
He  might  have  sailed  eternally. 

The  voyag^  may  be  safe  and  plain, 
B.ut  please  excuse  me,  Sarah  Jane, 
On  second  thought  I'm  in  no  haste 
To  launch  upon  that  boundless  waste. 

76 


So  tempt  me  not,  the  sweetest  kiss 
No  sounding  finds  in  that  abyss ; 
I'd  rather  float  in   Lakeside  bay, 
While  others  make  your  coast  survey. 


My  Annie  Dear,  you  lift  your  eyes 
To  ask  me  where  the  moral  lies? 
Ah,  rose-bud  mouth,  well — if  you  please, 
There  have  been  wrecks  on  smaller  seas. 


77 


EN  ROUTE. 

• 

Some  time  ago  your  Conductor  met  three  gentlemen  en  route  to 
Lake  Bluff,  111.  In  the  course  of  the  conversation  one  asked  his 
commercial  acquaintance  what  kind  of  goods  he  travelled  with. 
He  answered:  "Pumps."  Another  said:  "That's  my  line;  I 
sell  shoes."  "  I  travel  with  pumps  myself,"  said  the  other  gentle 
man  ;  "  I  am  a  pedestrian."  Your  conductor  being  on  a  lecture 
tour,  said,  "  I  am  somewhat  in  the  pump  line  myself;  I  spout." 
The  next  station  might  properly  be  classified  under  the  same  shoe- 
ology. 


A   MICHIGAN  WRECK. 

Stir  up  the  fire  and  make  it  bright, 
You  want,   my  lads,  a  story  true  :— 

I   took  a  cruise  one  summer  night 
On   Michigan's  wide  waters  blue. 

The  wind  was  fair  upon  the  lake, 
The  moon  lit  up  the  cheery  deck, 

When  up  the  Captain  sprang  and  spake  :- 
"  Bring  to  the  ship  !  a  wreck  !  a  wreck  ! 

"  Let  down  the  life-boats,  hearties  all  ! 

"  Work  with  a  will  !  "  the  Captain  said  ; 
"  Ho,  ship  ahoy  !  "  rang  out  his  call — 

The  wreck  was  silent  as  the  dead. 

All  eyes  were  strained  across  the  wave, 
The  mastless  hulk  was  drawing  near, 

No  voice  from  out  that  floating  grave, 
The  Captain's  cheek  was  pale  with  fear. 

79 


It  rose  between  us  and  the  sky, 
Its  gunwale  blotted  out  the  stars, 

Across  our  bow  it  floated  by, 

It  barely  grazed  the  boom  and  spars. 

"  Keep  her  in  sight !  "  the  Captain  said, 
"  And  follow  close  upon  her  wake!" 

With  jib  and  mainsail  freely  spread 
We  bounded  o'er  the  heaving  lake. 

Ah,  then  we  prayed  for  morning  light, 
Each  heart  was  filled  with  fear  and  dread 

As  through  the  silence  and  the  night 
That  shapeless  craft  before  us  sped. 

The  dawn  lit  up  the  eastern  sky, 

And  blacker  yet  the  dark  hulk  seemed, 

Its  strange  form  riveted  each  eye, 

From  stem  to  stern  the  sunlight  gleamed. 

And  then  !  ah  then,  the  mystery  past ; 

The  wreck  was  a  Chicago  shoe  ; 
The  crew  and  Captain  looked  aghast, 

A  girl's  size — medium  twenty-two. 
81 


EN  ROUTE. 

We  stop  for  a  moment  at  Dubuque,  Iowa,  to  "  take  on  "  a  class 
mate  whom  you  will  be  delighted  to  know.  In  1882  he  gave  your 
Conductor  the  freedom  of  his  church-platform  to  discuss  the  char 
acteristics  of  Shakspeare's  Heroines.  We  reciprocate  by  extending 
the  courtesies  of  our  car-platform  en  route  to  the  Yosemite. 


82 


A  HAND-SHAKE. 

TO   A   CLASSMATE   AFTER   FIFTEEN   YEARS. 

(Recited  before  a  Lecture  at  Dubuque,  Iowa.} 

What  !  fifteen  years  ?     No,  not  that  long  ! 
The  record,  David,  must  be  wrong  ; 
Dear  mother  Yale,  correct  your  sight, 
It's  only  'sixty-seven,  to-night. 

There's  some  mistake — no  jesting  here — 
We're  hardly  out  of  senior  year  ; 
Dear  mother,  look  again,  I   pray  ! 
Last  June  was  our  commencement  day. 

The  elms  on  old  New  Haven  green 
Have  scarcely  dropped  their  leaves,   I  ween 
It  only  seems  an  evening  since 
We  sat  upon  the  college  fence. 

83 


But  tell  me  now,  whose  bairns  are  these  ? 
Bright  boys  and  girls  about  your  knees ; 
Somehow  they  seem  to  look  like  you  ; 
Old  Yale  is  right, — tis  'eighty-two. 

Ay,  facts  are  chiels  which  winna  ding, 
And  bairns  are  facts  the  decades  bring  ; 
Come  home  with  me,  I'll  introduce 
Another  flock  that  looks  like  Bruce. 

I  think  we'll  have  another  pair 
To  take  our  seats  in  college  there  ; 
Ah,  David,  how  old  Yale  will  shine 
When  she  receives  your  boys  and  mine  ! 

They'll  never  sleep  in  Chapel — no  ! — 
Like  bricks  tipped  sideways  in  a  row  ; 
They'll  never  help  each  other  through 
Old  Euclid,  like  some  lads  we  knew. 

It's  our  good  luck  and  dearest  joy, 
To  find  more  gold  in  each  alloy  ; 
For  in  each  bright  and  childish  face 
We  both  can  read  their  mother's  grace. 
84 


Let  others  boast  their  gear  and  wealth, 
These  are  our  treasures,  rich  with  health ; 
The  living  gold  that's  coined  above, 
Fresh  from  the  mint  and  stamped  with  love. 

Upon  this  truth  we  boldly  stand, 
Two  brothers  of  a  scattered  band  ; 
Give  us  your  hand,  for  words  are  lame, 
I  find  you,  David,  just  the  same ; 

With  cheery  voice,  with  generous  heart, 
With  will  to  do  the  manly  part ; 
A  noble  leader,  now  as  then, — 
'Twas  then  of  boys,  but  now  of  men. 


EN  ROUTE. 

Omaha  !  and  only  one  minute  late !  It  was  probably  observed 
by  the  tourist  that  the  stations  during  the  first  part  of  our 
"run"  were  much  closer  together  than  they  have  been  on  the 
western  division.  We  halted  at  a  few  minor  places  on  the 
Hudson,  for  your  Conductor  knew  that  he  could  "make  up"  time 
through  the  great  valley  of  the  Mississippi  and  down  the  slopes 
of  the  Rockies  and  the  Sierras.  It  is  generally  customary,  at  this 
point,  to  take  up  a  collection  for  the  Captain  who  took  the  Omaha 
school ;  but  as  most  of  the  passengers  are  asleep,  the  collection  on 
this  trip  will  be  omitted. 


86 


YE   CAPTAIN    WHO    TOOK    YE    DISTRICT 
SCHOOL. 

An  Antique  Tale  of  Omaha. 

Clothes-bars  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  district  schools  a  cage  ; 
Knights,  like  our  hero,  merely  take 

These  for  a  hermitage. 

There  was  a  Captain  free  and  bold, — 
As  ancient  chroniclers  have   told, — 
Who,  fighting  in  his  country's  cause 
For  freedom's  right  and  freedom's  laws, 
Found  time  upon  his  trusty  sword 
To  write  a  name  his  soul  adored  ; 
And  build  huge  castles  in  the  air 
Well  furnished  for  his  Julia  fair. 

Would  that  such  castles  were  more  real ! 
How  soon  at  beauty's  shrine  we'd  kneel, 
With  sweet  and  eloquent  appeal 
To  tender  hearts  though  clad  in  steel. 
Ah,  gentle  maidens,  snugly  bound 
In  woven  bands  encircling  'round 
Like  prison-grates,  your  captives  are 
Outside  the  cruel  latticed  bar. 

87 


But  to  return   unto  our  story  :— 
Our  soldier,  from  the  fields  of  glory. 
With  battle-scars — upon  his   clothes— 
On  horseback  through  the  drifting  snows 
Was  struggling  toward  a  far-off  light 
Just  glimmering  through  that  dismal    night. 
And  fainter  now  the  pale  light  gleamed 
Through  blinding  rack  with  darkness  seamed, 
And  now  the  guiding  ray  is  gone, 
And  with  it — hope  forever  flown. 

Alas  !  fair  maid  with  anxious  heart, 
Your  tears  no  aid  can  now  impart ; 
For  tempest-tossed  in  treacherous   bank 
The  exhausted  steed  and  rider  sank. 
The  whirling  snow  and  blinding  sleet 
Were  weaving  fast  his  winding  sheet ; 
When,  joy !     Behold  a  school-house  near  ! 
And  buoyant  courage  stirred  his  breast, 
For  there  at  least  was  sheltered  rest 
From  such  a  storm  so  wild  and  drear. 

The  deed  was  suited  to  the   thought. 
The  captain  struggled  through  the  snow, 
The  door  was  forced  with  sturdy  blow, 
And  in  the  gallant  steed  was  brought. 

88 


His  tinder  box  a  fire  supplied, 
Which,  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide, 
Lit  up  the  wide  and  vacant  room, 
Which  else  had  seemed  a  living  tomb 
Wrapped  in  the  midnight  and  the  gloom. 

The  horse,  thawed  out,  began  to  paw, 
Asking  for  oats  and  bedded  straw, 
Unmindful  that  he  had  the  quarters 
Where  farmers  sent  their  sons  and  daughters. 
The  Captain  drowsily  looked  around 
On  well-worn  books  and  well-cut  seats 
Adorned  with  various  "  Bills  "  and  "  Petes," 
And  sank  at  last  in  slumber  sound  ; 
To  dream — :of  whom,  we  must  not  tell ; 
You  guess!     It  will  be  just  as  well. 

Suffice  to  say — in  about  a  day— 
For  the  simple  fee  of  an    "X"  or  a  "V" 
He  answered  "yes"  to  questions  three, 
To  wit:    Love,   Honor,  and  Obey;— 
The  form  is  changed  some  now-a-day, — 
Then  hired  a  sleigh,  and  felt  "  O.   K." 
But  he  never  forgot,  or  his  darling  "Jule," 
The  night  that  he  took  the  District  School. 

89 


EN  ROUTE. 

Lake  Tahoe  !  six  thousand  feet  above  the  sea !  Wonderful  in  a 
land  of  wonders  !  Grand  amid  the  grandeur  of  magnificent  moun 
tains  !  Thomas  Starr  King,  in  his  poetic  lecture,  describes  it 
as  a  vast  granite  bowl,  twenty  miles  in  diameter,  fifteen  hundred  feet 
in  depth,  and  likens  it  to  "  an  immense  floor  of  lapis  lazuli  set 
within  a  ring  of  flaming  emeralds ;  "  but  as  we  look  down  upon  it 
from  our  airy  journey,  it  gleams  like  a  matchless  turquois  uplifted  on 
the  great  mountain  chain  which  "  links  two  Polar  seas." 


90 


A  WANDERER. 

I   have  wandered  the  wide  world  o'er, 
I  have  sailed  over  many  a  sea, 

But  the  land  that   I   love  more  and  more 
Is  Columbia,  the  land  of  the  free  ; 

From  the  east  to  the  western  shore, 
From  the  north  to  the  southern  sea, 
Columbia  for  me  ! 

I  have  lingered  in  ivy-grown  bowers, 
In  minsters  and  palaces  vast, 

Amid  castles  and  crumbling  towers 
Whose  shadows  backward  are  cast ; 

But  the  longed-for  Atlantis  is  ours, 
And  freedom  interprets  at  last 
The  dream  of  the  past. 

91 


The  rivers  of  story  and  song, 

The  Danube,  the   Elbe,  and  the   Rhine, 
Entrance  for  a  day,  but  I  long 

For  the  dear  old   Hudson  of  mine; 
The   Hudson,  where  memories  throng, 

Where  love's  fondest  tendrils  entwine. 
Of  beauty  the  shrine. 

Like  music  entranced  in  a  dream 

Glide  the  Afton,  the  Boon  and  the  Ayr; 

But  the  Jansen,  the  clear  Jansen  stream, 
In  one  heart  shall  their  melody  share  ; 

And  my  soul  still   reflects  its  bright  gleam, 
For  I  played  in  my  childhood  there. 
When  visions  were  fair. 

I  have  heard  the  sweet  chiming  of  bells. 
From  the  Seine  to  the  Avon  and  Dee ; 
But  sweeter  the  anthem  that  swells, 
From  the  pine-clad  Sierras  to  me ; 
And  the  Sabbath-like  stillness  that  dwells 
In  these  mountains  far  up  from  the  sea. 
Lake  Tahoe  with  thee. 
92 


I   have  gathered  sweet  flowers  in  the  west, 
Where  the  streams  are  embroidered  with  gold 

But  the  blossoms  that   I   love  the  best 
Are  those  which   I  gathered  of  old  ; 

The  same  that  my  mother's  lips  pressed, 
Their  petals  the  sweetness  still  hold, 
Her  heart  they  enfold. 

I   have  wandered  the  wide  world   o'er, 

I   have  sailed  over  many  a  sea, 
But  the  land  that  I  love  more  and  more 

Is  Columbia,  the  land  of  the  free  ; 
From  the  east  to  the  western  shore, 

From  the  north  to  the  southern  sea, 
Columbia  for  me  ! 


93 


TERMINUS. 

Our  "Sixty  Minutes'  Trip"  across  the  Continent  is  finished. 
The  beauty  of  the  Hudson  finds  a  fitting  climax  of  grandeur  in 
the  Yosemite.  As  the  difference  of  standard  time  is  three  hours,  the 
tourist  alights  at  Inspiration  Point  just  two  hours  before  he  started 
from  Manhattan.  It  therefore  logically  follows  that  every  person, 
whose  time  is  worth  one  dollar  an  hour,  saves  exactly  one  dollar 
and  a  half  by  joining  our  excursion  to  the  Yosemite.  To  wit : 

3h. — ih  =2h. 

2X$i.oo  =  $2.oo — 5oc.  =  $i.5o.— (Q.  E.  D.) 


94 


THE  YOSEMITE. 

Waiting  to-night  for  the  moon  to  rise 

O'er  the  cliffs  that  narrow  Yosemite's  skies; 

Waiting  for  darkness  to  melt  away 

In  the  silver  light  of  a  midnight  day  ; 

Waiting,  like  one  in  a  waking  dream, 

I  stand  alone  by  the  rushing  stream. 

Alone  in  a  Temple  vast  and  grand, 
With  spire  and  turret  on  every  hand  ; 
A  world's  Cathedral,  with  walls  sublime, 
Chiseled  and  carved  by  the  hand  of  time  ; 
And  over  all  Heaven's  crowning  dome, 
Whence  gleam  the  beacon  lights  of  home. 

The  spectral  shadows  dissolve,  and  now 
The  moonlight  halos  El  Capitan's  brow, 
And  the  lesser  stars  grow  pale  and  dim 
Along  the  sheer-cut  mountain  rim  ; 
And,  touched  with  magic,  the  gray  walls  stand 
Like  phantom  mountains  on  either  hand. 

95 


Yet    I    know  they  are   real,   for   I    see   the   spray 
Of  Yosemite  Fall  in  the  moonlight  play, 
Swaying  and  trembling,  a  radiant  glow 
From  the  sky  above  to  the  vale  below  ; 
Like  the  ladder  of  old  to  Jacob  given, 
A  line  of  light  from  earth  to   Heaven. 

And  there  comes  to  my  soul  a  vision  dear, 
As  of  shining  spirits  hovering  near ; 
And  I  feel  the  sweet  and  wondrous  power 
Of  a  presence  that  fills  the  midnight  hour; 
And   I  know  that  Bethel  is  everywhere, 
For  prayer  is  the  foot  of  the  angel  stair. 

A  light  divine,  a  holy  rest, 

Floods  all  the  valley  and  fills  my  breast  ; 

The  very  mountains  are  hushed  in  sleep 

From   Eagle  Point  to  Sentinel   Keep ; 

And  a  life-long  lesson  is  taught  me  to-night, 

When  shrouded  in  shadow,  to  wait  for  the  light. 

Waiting  at  dawn  for  the  morn  to  break, 
By  the  crystal  waters  of  Mirror  Lake; 
Waiting  to  see  the  mountains  gray 
Clearly  defined  in  the  light  of  day, 
Reflected  and  throned  in  glory  here, 
A  lakelet  that  seems  but  the  valley's  tear. 


Waiting,  but  look  !     The  South   Dome  bright 

Is  floating  now  in  a  sea  of  light ; 

And  Cloud's  Rest,  glistening  with  caps  of  snow, 

Inverted  stands  in  the  vale  below, 

With  tow'ring  peaks  and  cliffs  on  high 

Hanging  to  meet  another  sky. 

O  crystal  gem  in  setting  rare  ! 
O  soul-like  mirror  in  middle  air  ! 
O  forest  heart  of  eternal  love, 
Earth-born,  but  pure  as  Heaven  above  ! 
This  Sabbath  morn  we  find  in  thee 
The  poet's  dream   of  purity. 

The  hours  pass  by  ;    I   am  waiting  now 
On  Glacier  Point's  o'erhanging  brow  ; 
Waiting  to  see  the  picture  pass, 
Like  the  fleeting  show  of  a  wizard-glass  ; 
Waiting, — and  still  the  vision  seems 
Woven  of  light  and  colored  with  dreams. 

But  the  cloud-capped  towers,  and  pillars  gray, 

Securely  stand  in  the  light  of  day  ; 

The  Temple  wall  is  firm  and  sure, 

The  Worshipers  pass,  but   It  shall  endure, 

And  will  while  loud  Yosemite  calls 

To  bright  Nevada  and  Vernal   Falls. 

97 


O  grand  and  majestic  organ-choir 

With  deep-toned  voices  that  never  tire ! 

O  anthem  written  in  notes  that  glow 

On  the  rainbow  bars  of  Po-ho-no ! 

O  sweet  "  Te  Dcnui "  forever  sung, 

With  spray,  like  incense,  heavenward  swung! 

Thy  music  my  soul  with  rapture  thrills, 

And  there  comes  to  my  lips  "The  templed  hills, 

Thy  rocks  and  rills," — a  Nation's  song, 

From  valley  to  mountain  borne  along ; 

My  country's  Temple,  built  for  thee ! 

Crowned  writh  the  Cap  of  Liberty ! 

O  country  reaching  from  shore  to  shore ! 
O  fairest  land  the  wide  -world  o'er ! 
Columbia  dear,  whose  mountains  rise 
From  fertile  valleys  to  sunny  skies, 
Stand  firm  and  sure,  and  bold  and  free, 
As  thy  granite-walled  Yosemite. 


Press  Echoes  from  the  Newbiirgh  Centennial. 
WALLACE  BRUCE 

Captivated  the  People  and  Won  the  Latirds  of  the  Day. 

The  honors  of  the  day  were  borne  off  by  Wallace  Bruce,  the  poet.  He  was 
thoroughly  in  earnest.  The  audience  was  perfectly  captivated,  and  when  the 
author  finished  there  was  a  storm  of  applause.  Upon  the  platform  Mr.  Bruce 
received  an  ovation,  all  the  prominent  men  in  front  seats  rising  and  congratu 
lating  him.  He  certainly  made  the  hit  of  the  occasion. — Urooklvn  I 

Wallace  Bruce  read  his  poem  with  a  fervor  and  emphasis  that  elicited 
repeated  outbursts  of  applause.  Several  of  the  distinguished  gentlemen  on  the 
stand  congratulated  Mr.  Bruce  after  he  had  finished.— A'CTV  York  Times. 

Rendered  with  a  fine  elocution,  in  a  voice  that  rang  clearly  far  out  on  the 
waves  of  the  multitude,  and  elicited  the  liveliest  demonstrations  of  pleasure.— 
New  York  Observer. 

Mr.  Bruce  is  a  reader  as  well  as  a  poet,  and  his  impassioned  lines  were  mag 
nificently  delivered,  exciting  the  greatest  possible  enthusiasm. — Newburgh 
Journal. 

Mr.  Bruce  was  in  excellent  voice,  and  his  fine  poem  was  vociferously 
applauded. — Pongh  keeps  ie  Eagle. 

Wallace  Bruce,  the  poet,  who  as  such  and  as  elocutionist  won,  and 
deservedly  so,  the  laurels  of  the  day,  was  heard,  and  distinctly,  all  over  the 
audience.  There  were  fire  and  spirit  in  voice,  and  imaginative  fitness  in  his 
poem.  Everyone  congratulated  him,  and  the  press  fellows,  keen  critics  as 
they  are,  were  the  loudest  in  cheers  for  Mr.  Bruce. — Daily  Graphic. 

Delivered  in  a  spirited  manner,  which  won  enthusiastic  plaudits.—  Albany 
A  rgus. 

The  speeches  by  Senator  Bayard  and  Mr.  Evarts  did  one  good  to  hear,  and 
made  the  humblest  in  the  audience  thank  the  fates  that  he  was  an  American. 
But  it  was  reserved  for  the  poet,  Wallace  Bruce,  to  fire  the  hearts  of  the  multi 
tude.  He  recited  with  the  fervor  of  a  minstrel  chanting  the  deeds  of  gods  and 
heroes,  and  on  retiring  to  his  seat  the  merits  of  his  composition  and  his 
inspiring  earnestness  were  recognized  with  cheers,  and  a  score  of  men. 
eyes  had  moistened  and  their  faces  flushed  while  they  listened  to  him.  sprang 
forward  to  shake  him  by  the  hand.  Art  had  triumphed  over  statesmanship.— 
Brooklyn  Times. 

The  Bryant  Literary  Union  has  the  entire  control  of  Wallace  KnuC 
ture  Routes.  His  "  .V,i//rv  Mettle,""  "  Landmarks  of  Scott,""  "  It  'omanhood  in 
Shakspeare"  "Robert  Burns,*'  and  "  Washington  Irving*"  each  and  all  have 
the  true  ring.  Mr.  Bruce  speaks  without  notes,  and  his  oratory  is  natural 
and  elective.  His  recipe  for  a  lecture  is,  "  Get  all  you  can  into  the  lecture, 
and  then  get  all  you  can  out  of  it."  Committees  will  do  well  to  consult  the 
circular  of  the  Bryant  Literary  Union  as  to  Lecturers  and  Readers  when 
arranging  their  list.  Address, 

BRYAXT  LITERARY   I'XIOX, 
•ng  Post  Building. 


HOLIDA  Y  POEMS. 


"  THE  HUDSON:'  fiv    Wallace  Bruce. 


Illustrated  by  ALFRED  FREDERICKS.       Published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 
For  sale  by  all  Book  Dealers.       Price,  $1.50. 

Have  read  it  with  much  pleasure. — LONGFELLOW. 
Charming  little  volume  of  poetry. — BEECHER. 
Mellow,  like  Indian  summer  days. — BURROUGHS. 
You  and  artist  have  made  a  charming  book.— WARNER. 
Poem  well  describes  our  beautiful  river. — ABBEY. 
Beautiful  and  pleasant  souvenir. — WHITTIER. 
Charming  little  volume.     Happy  idea. — HOLMES. 
"  Morning  "  answers  all  the  demands. — COLLYER. 
Dainty  and  delicious  little  volume. — PHILLIPS. 
I  have  read  and  greatly  enjoyed  it. — CURTIS. 
A  sweet  poem,  and  a  worthy  tribute. — LOSSING. 


A  pleasing  work  of  art. — Boston  Traveler. 

Smooth,  flowing  and  melodious. — Chicago  Tribune. 

A  perfect  gem  in  its  way. — Baltimore  Gazette. 

It  is  a  work  of  rare  merit. — Albany  Evening  Journal. 

Melodious  verse,  simple  and  manly. — Home  Journal. 

The  literary  matter  is  delightful.—  Toledo  Blade. 

Spirited  and  graceful. — Boston  Congregationalist. 

It  will  bear  numerous  readings. — Utica  Herald. 

Engravings  beautiful  and  suggestive.—  Indianapolis  Journal. 

Full  of  pleasant  fancies. — Scottish  American  Journal. 

Abounds  in  touches  of  genuine  poetry. — Hudson  Republican. 

Dainty  illustration  and  pleasant  lines. — Rondout  Courier. 

Legends  woven  with  physical  beauties.— Rutland  Herald. 

An  exquisitely  prepared  volume.— Danbury  News. 

A  gem  of  poetry  and  of  art. — Daily  Saratogian. 

"  The  Hudson"  "  The  Land  of  Burns"  "  The   Yosemite." 

Three  Holiday  Poems,  by  IVallace  Bruce. 
Either  of  these  Books  ?uill  be  sent  by  the  Bryant  Literary  Union,  on  receipt  of 

the  Wholesale  Price,  $r.OO. 
Elegantly  bound  and  tastefully  illustrated. 


